movement.

It is as simple as a conversation,
as the passing of language:
My words expelled into air.
His words expelled into air.
Enough pause between speech
for meaning to grow
into the spaces between us.

I am in mom’s chair,
wrapped inside her blanket.
He is in his chair,
back reclined and legs splayed before him,
great big barrel of man.

I might say:
I just don’t understand why you did it without telling us first.
He might explain
at length: His age. His loneliness. His fears.
I might say:
I understand. Do you understand why it was hurtful?
And he might answer: Yes. I understand.
He might offer: I’m sorry.

Anger is so heavy a weight
tied to your heart, dragging
the beats of your breath behind.

Old words he uttered: I have no purpose. No purpose.
Life steps. Steps. Forward marching.
Even in grief, there is joy to be found,
or purpose, at the very least.
My father, widowed, now remarried,
is alive. Living. Lives.

Forgiveness is as simple as
father and daughter speaking and listening,
each comprehending the other
as best as possible between the gaps-
generations and the divide of continents.

The desire for comprehension is greater
than all of space.